


The Rags of Time: III

by xpityx



Series: The Rags of Time [3]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: M/M, POV Multiple
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-02
Updated: 2018-06-02
Packaged: 2019-05-17 07:03:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14827646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xpityx/pseuds/xpityx
Summary: They had come upon the village at the end of the ninth day. After some debate Hamilton had been sent with Anne and a purse full of gold to secure their dwellings. As such they had two tiny timber cottages and a small plot of overgrown jungle to call their own. Jack was certain that there was more wildlife in the goddamn house than there was outside of it: there’d been a fucking rattlesnake in the bedroom.





	The Rags of Time: III

 

 

The directions Max had given Jack were vague at best. Ride south along the coast from the Altamaha river for six days until you reach the the bay of Turtle River, there, you will find a small Spanish village on the south bank that they call Abaicin. Max had promised that it was far enough from the mission at Guadalquini that they would go unnoticed, and that the local Timucua people traded with everyone: the French, Spanish and English. There had been a sickness in the village last year, she had said, so the people there would be pleased to sell them an empty cottage for a little gold. The fact that Max kept an eye out for boltholes had come as no surprise, but he had been surprised by her sharing of said boltholes. He had a feeling that that was more to do with Anne than anyone else currently riding with him, but one did not look a gift horse in the mouth. It had, in fact, taken them longer than six days to ride down the coast. The terrain was unforgiving, and they’d had to dismount to fight their way through thick jungle more than once. How Charles had made it on foot across Jamaica he’d never know.

 

The plantation had fallen to the thing that they themselves had used as a method of control: fear. The first night they had killed a guard as the men slept. The second they had killed a further three, creeping in on foot then dragging the bodies into the dense underbrush. The plantation itself was too remote for them to easily raise help, and the next day, as two more guards had ridden out to do just that, Anne and Charles had surprised them a mile down the track. Thus, six men had remained to guard 30, one of whom was one of the most fearsome pirates in the New World. It had been a short fight.

 

Lord Thomas Hamilton had certainly not been what Jack had expected. Whip lean, his forearms were corded with muscle from hard labour, his eyes permanently squinted in the harsh sun. He’d asked for, and received, a stay of execution for the remaining guards, and for the man who had kept him prisoner for some untold number of years. Captain Flint, murderer of hundreds, if not thousands of souls, had looked at his lover as if he offered all the bounty of the boundless sea.

 

Most of the other freed men had elected to make their way north to the port at Charles Town, rather than accompany the pirates into the depths of the jungle. Jack was half tempted to follow them himself, but perhaps arriving in the city with the two men who’d raised it to the ground was not the best plan. Jake and Mr Aarons, the boiler and physician respectively, had been made of sterner stuff, and had accompanied them as far as St. Catherines. From there they had planned to negotiate for passage onto Nassau, where Jack had instructed them to go straight to Max. He had no doubt that Mr Aarons would be able to find employment on the island, but Jake would be in danger until Max could secure him papers.

 

It had been a quiet ride once those two had left them. He hadn’t realised quite how much Mr Aarons and Jake had been holding up the conversation until they were gone. Charles was still not speaking to him above and beyond the absolutely necessary, and Hamilton and Flint were in a world of their own. He was, as always, grateful for Anne’s presence and he made sure to tell her so, despite her exasperation at his need to put into words what she already knew.

 

They had come upon the village at the end of the ninth day. After some debate Hamilton had been sent with Anne and a purse full of gold to secure their dwellings. As such they had two tiny timber cottages and a small plot of overgrown jungle to call their own. Jack was certain that there was more wildlife in the goddamn house than there was outside of it: there’d been a fucking rattlesnake in the bedroom.

 

He wasn’t sure how long they were planning on staying. He had been hoping to deposit Flint and his lover into their insect-infested home and make their way back to Nassau but apparently that was not the plan.

 

  
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James noticed of course that Thomas was quiet. He had been quiet for the whole journey, but it had been less obvious in the day to day moil of travelling. The first few nights they had barely slept: James awake because Thomas was. By some silent agreement Charles, Bonny and Rackham had formed a haphazard barrier between them and the jungle on the third night, and Thomas had finally slept a little. James had cursed himself for not realising that they were making their way through Thomas’ nightmare: an endless tangle of dark trees stretching away into the heat-soaked distance.

 

Now they had reached their apparent destination: a small Spanish village, barely even deserving of the word. Their own cottages had almost been reclaimed by the elements, and the work of clearing them had been a relief: here was a physical action he could perform to make Thomas more comfortable. It was easier than dealing with the unseen horrors that haunted him still.

 

That Charles seemed to be staying had surprised him, but he was less surprised that Rackham and Bonny had chosen to follow his lead. He was still unsure as to the role that those two had played in the final fate of Nassau, but the thought of making any effort to find out wearied him greatly. There was much information that was owed and owing, but there would be time.

 

  
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Charles was both surprised and grateful that Anne and Jack remained. He knew it was cowardly, but he could not make himself return to Nassau, not until he was sure of his skill with a sword; until he had mended the breach between them; until he had some fucking idea what he was going to do.

 

How he was to improve wasn’t yet clear to him, but he was damned if he was going to ask James for help. Anne was quicker than anyone, but she had barely had the patience to be taught when he’d first met her, so he could not imagine her as a teacher. He worried away at the problem as they cleared both cottages, first James and Thomas’ and then their own. Each time he lifted his arm above shoulder height it was like fire in his bones, and he kept his silence half out of continued anger at what they’d done, and half because he was afraid of what he might say.

 

Three days after the last branch had been cleared from the interior, and Charles had finally asked of Jack’s plans.

 

“We’ll stay a while I think, just to get you settled of course. What if you need someone to do some heavy lifting for you or to braid your hair once it grows back?” Jack replied.

 

Charles smiled a little, “Fuck you Jack.”

 

And Jack smiled back.

 

  
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The first time they had sat all together on the back porch, all that had remained unsaid had heaped between them, making it an uncomfortable gathering, for James at least. Thomas, of course, had been the one to come to their rescue, accurately guessing that Rackham was capable of speaking enough to fill the silence of ten people, and asking him of former acquaintances. The idea that Lord Hamilton might have acquaintances in common with Jack Rackham was laughable, but Rackham had seemed delighted at the assumption and had launched into descriptions of what few friends of standing he’d had. James had watched in awe as Thomas had even managed to steer the conversation to a topic that Charles saw fit to add to, where he was privy to the surreal sight of Charles Vane arguing against Thomas over Hobbes’ theory of representative power.

 

“Yes, as Captain I was voted to represent the best interests of the crew as a whole, but that does not mean I always represented the best interest of the crew, only what _I_ thought those interests were.”

 

“Then how do you propose we function as a whole? How are governments to function if those eligible to vote do not hand their best interest decisions to someone that they have _chosen_ to represent them?”

 

“Each ship is different, and so they are run differently. As it should be with each community. You speak as if there is some overarching truth that would allow for all men to be free.” Charles shook his head, “To be free of decisions is to give yourself over to tyranny. Every action must be discussed and agreed on among the group on whom the action will affect, and any action that doesn’t affect the whole group need not be discussed with them.”

 

“Then we will never have cities, countries, empires. We will be forever limited in our endeavours by the smallness of our numbers.”

 

“That’s no bad thing,” Bonny interjected.

 

Thomas grinned at them, obviously delighted in finding people who were not yet too sick of him to debate.

 

James was happy to sit back and let their voices wash over him. He could just about imagine Thomas on the Walrus with him, watching the crew perform some play or mock trial. It was not something he wished to go back to, but only the half formed thought that as Thomas had been alive all this time, so should he have been at his side as he sat in the sun on the rocking deck, watching his crew laugh at some terrible pun, the blue of the sky bright above them.

 

  
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It was not until the second week that conversation turned to Nassau. Jack had, up until that point, been able to steer the topics to safer waters. However, he realised quickly that Thomas had been allowing his misdirection, rather than having been overwhelmed by Jack’s superior conversational skills. After being gently dragged back onto the topic that Hamilton wanted to discuss for the fourth time, and one Jack very definitely did not want to discuss, he gave up in the hope that Charles would prevent Flint from leaping over the dining room table and slitting his throat. If they could make it a week without anyone being stabbed, he would call it a miracle.

 

Jack explained a little of the new order on Nassau, and Charles asked a terse question regarding the price that Madam Guthrie's support had cost them.

 

Flint sat forward at his answer, the candlelight eerie on his face as he spoke.

 

“ _You?_ You were planning to kill me?”

 

“Well, I hadn't quite worked out the specifics, but it was one of the foremost terms of the deal, yes,” Jack replied.

 

“Long John Silver sent six of his best men after me, and as we speak they are rotting in the heat of the jungle and Here. I. Sit.”

 

Jack glanced nervously at Charles but he didn't seem to be paying much attention to the very angry pirate captain sat opposite them, so perhaps they weren't in danger of being murdered in the next few seconds.

 

“James,” Hamilton said, softly and wonder of wonders, Flint seemed to reel himself in a little. There was a brief uncomfortable pause, then Flint announced he was going for a piss and disappeared out into the back.

 

Jack exchanged a speaking look with Anne, and turned back to table when Hamilton spoke again.

 

“James is an honourable man, for all the blood he has spilt in my name and that of my wife. I therefore imagine should he ever decide that you are worth challenging, you would face him with a sword in your hand and a pistol in your belt. I, however, am no such creature, and if you ever threaten him again I will set you on fire as you sleep.”

 

Jack opened his mouth to make some reply, though he didn’t currently know what, but Charles just snorted.

 

“I can see why he declared war with England over you.”

 

Thomas quirked an unamused smile, which shifted into something softer, almost too intimate to look at, when Flint returned to the room.

 

Hamilton turned the conversation to other topics after that but Jack, for once, was quiet.

 

  
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A few nights later Charles waved off Jack and Anne as they retired, and sat with Thomas and James for a little while until Thomas also took his leave.

 

James seemed content to wait the whole night until Charles said what he come to say, and he was grateful for the silence while he waited for the right words to come to him.

 

“Jack said you were with her, in the end,” he said finally, his voice even.

 

He felt James glance at him, but he couldn’t bring himself to meet his eyes. This was all the bravery he could ask of himself: he would hear the truth of her death, but he would do so with his eyes on the endless dark where he was free to imagine her still alive to hate him.

 

“Yes, yes I was... Did Jack tell you about the deal I made with her, and the Spanish fleet?”

 

Charles nodded.

 

“We had been on our way back to Nassau, “James began, “after attempting to secure the cache when Spanish soldiers found us: myself, Madi, Eleanor and the few Redcoats sent as guard. Some Spanish escaped our swords however so, leaving one man as guard, we left the women in the cottage and went after them. When I came back, the cottage was burning and Eleanor was on the ground in front of it. She told me that she had been trying to protect Madi.” James paused for a second, as his voice wavered a little, “She asked about her husband but I told her…”

 

Charles stood up sharply. He hadn’t known she’d married him. He took three steps out into the dark and stayed there, wrestling the terrible emotion that clawed at him. The night was alive with sounds both familiar and strange, and from the porch he could hear the steady beat of moths battering themselves to dust on the lamp.

 

When he felt he could listen again, he went back to the steps and sat down. James hadn’t moved or said a word.

 

He cleared his throat and spoke again, “she asked if the Governor had been the one to send the fleet. I told her no, that he wasn’t with them.”

 

“She truly loved him?” Charles couldn’t prevent himself from asking.

 

James hesitated then shook his head. “I’ve never known her to be on any side but her own. Whatever she had been planning, I have no doubt that she would have found her way back into a position of power once again.”

 

Charles didn’t know if it was the truth or not, but it was the only thing he could have borne to hear. He clasped a hand to James’ shoulder as he stood, then made his way through the dark shapes of the garden to his own porch.

 

  
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Jack had been woken by something, by some small noise, and he lay in the dark listening. Anne was still snoring softly, which told him there was probably no imminent threat at least, so he got up to see what had become of Charles. Clad in only his breeches, he stepped out into the humid night onto the porch. Charles, visible by the glow of his lit cheroot, sat on the step below him, but gave no indication that he knew he was there.

 

“I take it you spoke to Flint about her?” Jack guessed aloud.

 

Charles pulled on his cheroot instead of answering, the glow from the tip casting dark shadows over his face.

 

“You still love her,” Jack realised, unsure why he was surprised. “Charles, she tried to have you hanged. She’s the reason you were left to rot in that cell for seven months, the reason you can’t swing a sword with your right arm.”

 

“You tricked me into taking a hold full of slaves as a prize, you sold a fellow pirate into chains and helped hand the reins of Nassau back to England.”

 

The ‘and I still love you’ went unsaid, but Jack heard it all the same. He sat down heavily on the step next to him, close enough that their shoulders touched. Jack imagined that there weren’t enough spirits in the village to allow Charles to accept more comfort than this, and not enough opium in the New World to allow him to cry. So instead they sat, well into the night, and Jack offered his friend silence in lieu of all the other consolations that he could not accept.

 

  
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James woke up and instantly rolled over to check that Thomas was in bed with him. He was of course, sat up with a book in his hand a cup of gently steaming tea on the nightstand. He lifted his hand and settled it into James’ hair, which had started to grow back. James had thought at first that he would get over his waking panic, that he would eventually come to awaken without the attendant fear that Thomas had been taken from him once again.

 

It had been nearly two months, and it had yet to lessen. Thomas had noticed, of course, and made sure to be always next to him when he awoke. James’ had felt foolish to begin with, and had attempted to hide how much it terrified him when Thomas wasn’t beside him in the morning, but to no avail. Thomas had not gone so far as to make him talk about it at least.

 

They had only been able to take a few books with them from so he was reading Elizabeth Cary’s _Tragedy of Mariam_ for the hundredth time.

 

“Don’t you know that by heart by now?” James asked, voice gravely with sleep.

 

“Shhh, listen,” Thomas said, moving his hand from James’ hair to place it over his mouth.

 

“ _Take thou no care for me,_

_Nay, do thy worst, thy worst I set not by:_

_No shame of mine is like to light on thee,_

_Thy love and admonitions I defy.”_

 

Thomas continued to stare at the page even after he finished reading, leaving James to reach up and physically remove his hand from his mouth.

 

“Oh, sorry my love, I had forgotten.” Thomas smiled down at him, and James scowled in reply.

 

“This was one of Miranda’s favourites,” he added, as if they had not discussed this play some twenty times already. James felt the same guilt that reaved him whenever Thomas mentioned her. Guilt that he had not saved her; than he had allowed himself to be blind to how lonely she had been in Nassau, how she had longed for the company of others with whom to laugh and sing; that he had not yet been able to bring himself to share more than a little of their life together with Thomas.

 

“I know,” James replied.

 

Thomas must have heard something in his voice, as he lent down to kiss him sweetly.

 

  
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The day Anne and Jack were due to go back to Nassau, Charles was sitting on the back porch, smoking, when Anne found him. She dumped a comb into his lap then sat one step down from him with her back to him. Charles smiled a little to himself, he had missed this. He started at the bottom, easily finding the balance between brushing carefully enough as to not pull on her hair and quickly enough that she wouldn’t get annoyed and snatch the comb out of his hands. The first time she had ever let him do this he had been too hesitant and she’d ended up doing exactly that, leaving Charles to look on and she’d yanked the comb through her hair, red strands falling to the floor around her in her agitation. He’d paid careful attention to how Jack did it after that, and hadn’t got it wrong the next time she’d thrown him a comb.

 

“You really stayin’?” she asked, after a while.

 

“Yeah, I’m really staying.”

 

“Why?”

 

He watched his hands perform the mindless task for a moment, trying to find the right words for her.

 

“I don’t know what Thomas and James are planning, if anything, but I cannot imagine either of them giving up a fight they’ve been part of for so long. I swore myself to that same fight, and even if they decide to stay here, to leave Nassau to its ruin, I cannot. But to do that, I must be strong again. I must be able to fight as well with my left as with my right, and I must know everything that happened while I was in that cell.”

 

She nodded, tugging at her hair where it lay in his hands.

 

“We couldn’t follow you no more, not and live,” she said, eventually. “I know what we did was not what you wanted, but if it’s us living or death, I’m always gonna choose us.”

 

“I know.”

 

She turned around then, and whatever she saw in his face must have satisfied her because she nodded and then turned back around so Charles could continue.

 

They were quiet again, and Charles continued to comb her hair, even though it was long past untangled.

 

“Teach saved Jack. Didn’t mean to, but he did.”

 

Charles stilled, he'd heard a lot of what had happened in his absence, but not this.

 

“We boarded the Governor’s ship, but he’d sacrificed his men to lure us in. Got us surrounded. He keelhauled Teach - three times they dragged him under, till he was nothing but blood and rags. Never seen so little left of a man, worse even than a shark. Governor said to take Jack next, but Teach he started breathin’ again. The Governor shot him then ordered us into the hold instead, said we’d be hanged in Port Royal.”

 

So close to his own predicted end, not even to be given the honour of returning to the sea.

 

“And your hands?” he asked.

 

Anne moved to sit opposite him then, and the look on her face was the same as when she stood on the deck of some prize they had taken, men dead at her feet and her swords red in her hands. She called to Jack, and he came out to sit with them, and together they told him about her scars, about the price she had paid to save her crew.

 

  
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A few hours later Anne nodded at Charles as she sat astride her horse.

 

“Don’t die again,” she said, “Jack kept crying. Kept me up.”

 

Charles smiled his half smile at her, “He cried when I came back as well.”

 

“Yes, yes,” Jack said, longsuffering as he mounted his own horse, “How terrible it is for you both that I can admit I care.”

 

James and Thomas had said their brief goodbyes earlier, but had tactfully left the three of them alone after that. Charles was unsure if staying behind was the best idea, but Thomas had made it explicitly clear that he was welcome, and James had patted him on the shoulder and grunted at him, which he had taken to mean the same thing.

 

What he had said to Anne had been true though, and after seven months away another few weeks would make very little difference. It was a strange world indeed when he had chosen to remain on land when he had the choice of sailing again, but the world had become strange to him in his absence so he would wait a while until he could see which path he should follow. He had promised a free Nassau, and he would see it done or die trying.

 

  
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“So, have you ever officiated a union?” James aimed his sword in a downward slice, attempting to break through Charles’ rapidly improving footwork.

 

“No.” Charles blocked him of course, then brought his sword around in arc that would’ve taken a chunk out of his shoulder if James hadn’t caught it with the uppermost portion of his blade.

 

“No? None of your crew sought that kind of agreement?” He pushed back but Charles stood his ground, both of them vying for the upper hand. James forced Charles’ sword to the ground with sheer brute strength, but Charles stepped smartly away from his subsequent attack.

 

He shrugged a little as they circled each other, first one way, and then the other. “Jack did it, better with words.”

 

“Ah. Well…” James started and trailed off.

 

Charles just looked at him, “Of course. I would be honoured.”

 

James saluted him with his sword, and they stepped back into starting positions in silence. He had thought that he would not be able to stand this, that it would be too close to the time he’d spent with Silver, training and talking on the clifftops. But there was nothing of John Silver in this man - Charles would not look in those around him only for his own littleness: he believed that freedom was possible and he would die for that belief. And, although he called him a friend, a betrayal from him would never gut him.

 

They fought for another hour, the evening cooling a little to make the heat almost tolerable. Charles was quick to reverse his footwork, and he already was well used to using his left as well as his right. The only habit he need to train himself out of was relying on his right in the heat of the moment.

 

“Charles…” James started as they were finishing up for the evening. He trailed off, unsure how to apologise for what they had all assumed; that he’d died in Port Royal almost before they’d known that he’d gone.

 

“I know. I know you would have come for me.” He looked over his shoulder, towards James’ cottage, then back to him, “And if I had known about Thomas.”

 

James acknowledged that with a nod, and they both went their separate ways for the evening.

 

  
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They had held the ceremony the next day, in the early morning before the humidity had much chance to set in. It had been short: they had no rings, and no way of gaining any, so Thomas had given James a ribbon for when his hair grew back, and James had given him a teacup that Charles had kindly traded one of the villagers for on his behalf. Thomas, being the menace he was, had thanked Charles sincerely for conducting the ceremony, and then had presented him with some soft wax to use to ‘stop up his ears for the evening’. Charles had smirked at James, who had tried to maintain some dignity whilst heat crawled over his skin.

 

They retired a little earlier than usual, James still somewhat embarrassed by his lover’s - his _husband’s_ \- complete lack of decorum. Miranda had been the same, teasing him and taunting him by turns until they’d end up fucking in some bushes or some such: faint, aristocratic conversation humming in the background.

 

That Miranda was not here now was an ache he imagined he would never be free off, but being able to look at Thomas and see that same absence reflected back at him was comfort of a sort. They kissed for a long time before James took himself off to wash in private and fetch the oil.

 

He handed it to Thomas when he returned to their bed, who was quick to spill some onto his fingers, and to begin to work James open. James lay on his front, fighting to keep his moans to a low volume. Thomas, damn him, did everything in his power to make him give voice to his pleasure, alternately biting and kissing the inside of his thighs as he worked in fingers deeper. Once Thomas was inside him neither of them lasted long, not yet having the patience to draw out the act. Eventually they would come back to some balance in their lovemaking, but they had not yet reached an equilibrium.

 

Thomas fetched a cloth to clean them as James lay sprawled across the bed: not quite dozing. The creak and chirup of insects seemed loudest at dusk, the air still with heat beyond the closed shutters.

 

He was shocked into wakefulness though as a wet cloth landed on his back. He bared his teeth at Thomas as he made himself comfortable next to him, but Thomas only smiled back smugly.

 

“Is this the behaviour I should expect from you from now on, husband?” he enquired mildly as he began to clean himself off.

 

Thomas was quiet though, and he looked up to see an expression on his face that was most decidedly not joy.

 

“What is it?” James asked, suddenly afraid, did he regret his vows?

 

“No, my love,” Thomas said, answering the unvoiced question, “it is merely that it has occurred to me that I was Miranda’s husband first and… and I do not think that I would like to be another’s. I think, instead, I will be your wife.”

 

James struggled for a moment to think of a response to that, his emotions racing from fear to grief, to some unknown emotion somewhere between shame and joy. That Thomas could take a title that would be used to deride him at best, and claim it as his own not because of a role he played - if anything, James was the one who took rather than gave during their lovemaking - but out of love for Miranda. How could he stand to be loved by a man so brave?

 

Thomas smirked down at him, “Although, I believe you would look better in a dress, my dear.”

 

Ah, there was the embarrassment, he knew something had been missing from this conversation.

 

“I will not be wearing a dress,” he gritted out.

 

Thomas, of course, was not dissuaded.

 

“Hmm, I can imagine you in some light, gauzy thing, something that revealed more than it hid.”

 

“Why did I marry you again?” He could feel the heat of the blush that he knew would spread from the tips of his ears to halfway down his chest.

 

Thomas kissed him deeply.

 

“Let me remind you, my love.”

 

  
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Despite their reliance on their village neighbours for most necessities, there was still oatmeal to make and dough to knead. For some unfathomable reason, despite living with two men from the most opposite corners of society, neither of them knew how to boil water, therefore these tasks more often than not fell to James. He didn’t mind, idle hands and such, but it meant that he was normally up well before Thomas stirred. It had taken very little time for Lord Hamilton to remember that he preferred to sleep until after 9 if given a choice. Between cooking, keeping the cottage from falling down around their ears, and training with Charles he found there was plenty to occupy him for the time being. They all three seemed to have come to the idea that they would not be living there forever, but it was an idea that so far remained unvoiced.

 

That morning James walked into the main room to find Charles sitting on a chair with a book. He swore and retreated quickly into the bedroom to put on some breeches at least. When he returned, somewhat more clothed, Charles hadn’t moved from his spot and made only the slightest grunt when James offered his good mornings. He thought he’d gotten away with it, but as he put the kettle over the fire for tea Charles remarked, “It had never occured to me that one could get grey hair around one’s cock as well as on one’s head.”

 

James leaned his head on the mantelpiece and prayed for strength.

 

“Don’t worry, I’m sure Thomas has no complaints about your old man’s prick,” he added.

 

James felt rather than saw Thomas pause under the lintel on his way into the room.

 

“Is there any particular reason we are discussing my husband’s cock on this fine morning?”

 

“He was waving it around,” Charles replied.

 

“ _I was not…_ ” James started.

 

“Really my love,” Thomas walked around the table to kiss his cheek, “you mustn’t show off so.”

 

James rolled his eyes and Charles smiled into his book.

 

  
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Thomas wished to ask more about Miranda during her time in Nassau. When he had last seen her she had been surrounded by their finary in London, as such he could not imagine her here in their wooden cabin, dressed in her peacock blue silks. She must have worn cotton in Nassau though, and fetched her own water. She must have inexpertly darned her own stockings, as Thomas was attempting to do, and cried frustrated tears over breaking their only teacup. And yet, he could not imagine any of these things, and therefore he could not imagine her there with them: his wife with his husband in this place they had found.

 

He had asked Charles if he’d met her, one day when James had been elsewhere and out of earshot.

 

He hadn’t, which was telling in of itself, but he had apparently seen something of the place where she had lived for ten years, and had indulged Thomas by describing a little of it to him.

 

How awful that they had been married twenty years when she had died, but he had only had half that time with her in his life.

 

They were not to remain here. James wished to return to Nassau, that much was clear, and to aid his Madi in whatever way he could. Thomas both longed to return to his former optimism and dreaded it. He understood now how narrow his understanding of the world had been and he knew that he must make amends for the evil that his worldview had perpetuated, but his small efforts to change those around him had cost him most dearly. He could not imagine what James’ vision of their future might cost them.

 

While James and Charles looked for their strength in their swords, the sounds of blades crossing audible from where he sat at the table, Thomas worked to find who he was under the fear.

 

James came in some time later, once Thomas had composed himself a little and found a book to stare at rather than the wall. James bent down to kiss him in greeting.

 

“‘Come then, put away your sword in its sheath, and let us two go up into my bed.’” Thomas said, the quote bubbling up from the recesses of his mind.

 

“‘So that, lying together in the bed of love, we may have faith and trust in each other.’” James replied, and kissed him again, and Thomas was not afraid.

 

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Charles had walked into the McGraws’ to find them arguing over, well, something to do with a contract between people and their government had been his best guess. He’d made himself tea and sat down at the table with the book he’d been slowly working his way through. He had not had to read anything longer than a ship manifest since he’d been under Teach’s tutelage and he found the effort a little taxing.

 

About half an hour later, he realised that they were actually discussing what was to be done to aid Miss Scott and her Maroons.

 

“I have no doubt that Madi has roundly rejected any treaty that results in her having to give up a single one of her people to the Empire,” James was saying.

 

“You could buy all the plantations on Nassau,” he interjected, before Thomas was able to think of an obscure quote to reply with.

 

Both of them looked across at him, Thomas puzzled. So he didn’t know about the cache. Well, too late to worry about that now.

 

“With what?” Thomas asked.

 

“You could buy all of the plantations,” he repeated, ignoring Thomas’ question entirely. “It would allow Max to maintain the illusion of legitimacy, but would also make it a safe harbour for Miss Scott and her people.”

 

“Max would never accept such a plan,” James replied.

 

Charles shrugged, he imagined if anyone could convince her of the merit of the idea, it would be James.

 

“I’m sorry, I feel as if I’m missing something. With what do you think we could buy _seven_ plantations?” Thomas enquired.

 

James looked at Charles, but Charles was both well used to and well immune to Jack’s silent entries for help when he’d pissed off Anne. He got up from the table.

 

“Night,” he announced, despite the fact that it wasn’t even past midday, leaving James to explain the Spanish gold and attendant madness to his lover in whatever way he saw fit.

 

  
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Rainy season continued through the long months of June and July, bringing sudden downpours and unbearable humidity. Thomas had found himself rather enamoured with the new freckles that had sprung up across James’ cheeks over the summer, and was exploring them, and his mouth, more closely when Charles walked in.

 

“Jesus, do you ever stop?” came a deep voice from the doorway.

 

“Do you ever knock?” James replied, blushing even as he gave up the seat they had been sharing so that Thomas could sit on it alone.

 

“Got a letter from Jack,” Charles started, without preamble. “He’s coming back this way, and I reckon I’ll head back to Nassau with him.”

 

Thomas looked to James, but he was still looking at Charles, a question on his face.

 

“He’s not there, Jack checked.”

 

The famed Long John Silver, whose name was not spoken in their house, but whose betrayal hung heavy over James whether he acknowledged it or not.

 

“You think I’m weak for not wanting to meet with him,” James demanded, more a statement than a question.

 

“No, not at all. It took me twenty years to face the man who condemned me to slavery, and he had not first been my friend.”

 

The fight seemed to go out of James at that and he nodded. There was no question that they were to go back with Charles, they had discussed their plans more times than he could count at this very table. Now all there was to do was to return to Nassau and put them in motion.

 

“Did you kill him?” Thomas asked suddenly, interrupting a discussion of timings. “Did you kill the man who enslaved you?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Good,” Thomas replied, and said no more. James watched him carefully for a moment, but went back to his conversation when it was clear that Thomas did not wish to speak further on the topic.

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“No, no.” As James watched Jack closed his eyes and held out his arms as if he was expecting to receive holy favour from the Lord, “describe it to me exactly, every stitch.”

 

Jack had arrived that evening, having been rowed to shore a little way down the coast. The Colonial Dawn was anchored an hour’s ride away, and they were to set out at first light. He had thought that perhaps he would want to spend his last night in this little haven tucked away with just Thomas, but Jack had somehow started a conversation about London fashions and now, an hour later, here they were.

 

Thomas for his part, looking exceedingly amused, began to describe his gold and blue waistcoat in excruciating detail, while Jack remained in the same ridiculous pose, occasionally making small sounds of joy.

 

James turned to Charles, who was watching Jack with what looked like horror.

 

“How did you become friends, again?” he asked.

 

“I lost a bet.”

 

James snorted, then watched, fascinated, as Jack opened his eyes and leant forward to clarify some point or other on exact shade of the tasseling.

 

He thought he’d be stuck listening to Jack for the rest of the night, but then Charles spoke again.

 

“Jack is my brother, but more that that, I know him as I know myself, and I would not know myself so well without him.”

 

James looked over to him, but Charles had his eyes on Rackham. He could hardly believe he had ever thought this man a mindless savage. James had always looked down on Jack Rackham as a hanger-on, a mere pretender to the throne, but he had seen in Charles something that James, for all he prided himself on being able to read those around him, had missed.

 

“And Anne Bonny?” he asked.

 

“You know the story in the Bible that Jesus tells, of the poor man and the rich man, and what gifts they give to the church?”

 

James nodded, unsure where this was going.

 

“Anne always makes me think of that story.”

 

He got up then and clasped a friendly hand on James’ shoulder.

 

“I’ll get us a drink, as we will probably be here a while.”

 

  
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Early the next morning Charles was sitting on the front porch when Jack came to sit next to him. They had been ready to go for an hour or so, but were waiting on the McGraws who were apparently having terse words on how many books they could carry.

 

“I swear to Christ I heard James refer to Lord Hamilton as _Mrs McGraw_ just now _.”_

 

Charles shrugged, uninterested.

 

“Honestly I’m not sure I will ever be able to scrub my mind clean of the imagery that it conjured.” He shuddered as if to underscore his point.

 

“Well,” Charles replied, taking a long drag on his cheroot, “I’m pretty sure that whatever you are imagining, the truth is more along opposite lines.”

 

Jack looked genuinely horrified at the thought, and Charles snorted.

 

“Captain.”

 

He lifted an eyebrow, a little surprised that Jack was addressing him as such.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Never tell me.”

 

Charles did laugh then, loud enough for James to come down his own front steps to see what the commotion was about. Jack was completely unable to meet his eyes, which only made Charles laugh harder and James scowl suspiciously.

 

A good day to be alive.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my lovely beta [SlumberousTrash](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlumberousTrash/pseuds/SlumberousTrash), and to [urcadelimabean](https://archiveofourown.org/users/urcadelimabean) for giving me line by line feedback and encouragement at 9am on a Saturday morning ^^
> 
> Epilogue up in the next couple of days ^^
> 
> You can find me on [tumblr](http://xpityx.tumblr.com/) where I'm sobbing over Black Sails with anyone who will listen to me.


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